In Medias Res
by Enchantable
Summary: Collab w/thefallenpain. After the movie, Dastan finds himself at the mercy of an old enemy. Tamina, wed to another, struggles to remain loyal to her husband and her city. All the while the Dagger draws them slowly back to the Sands of Time.
1. Chapter 1

With a low sound of agony, Dastan of Persia opened his eyes.

The world swam nauseatingly, the darkness of the cave he sat in only making it harder to ground himself in the present. The only light came from the flicker of fire in a pit to his left, the rest of the cave lost to the shadows. His mind, what was left of it anyway, told him he was below the actual lair of the men who had taken him, shoved into a place men were never meant to come out of. How he was still alive, he could not say, or even if he was truly alive still at all. The agony of his broken bones and torn flesh was dulled by the drugs that swirled through his head. He could not focus on anything, his thoughts slipping through his desperate fingers as easily as water. Only the odd, sharp burst of pain reminded him that he was, in some way, still alive.

Every time he had found the shreds of sanity to move, he had forced his body to do so. To flex his bloody, torn wrists against the unforgiving ropes that burned into his skin. To move his ankles, both the good and the broken, against the ropes that bound them. Gentle movements that sent agony up his body followed, testing how he was bound that day. Today the ropes that bound his bruised and broken ribs were gone, leaving his chest aching. He felt that under the fog of the herbs that had overcome his system. It was odd what came through the haze and what did not. Which bumps and bruises hurt, which were lost in the smoke. As quickly as the thought of its oddity had occurred to him, it slipped away, retreating into the fog like the half forgotten caress of a long lost lover.

Within moments, Dastan forgot he had thought them at all.

Time, emotion, none of it mattered in this place. There were times when Dastan thought he could see Garsiv's face or smell the oils Tus used in his hair. Once he had even imagined the touch of his father's hand on his head. But those thoughts only made him sad, in the brief moments when he could feel such things. And more often than not the face he saw most often was that of his Uncle. Mostly he saw him in the moment before his death, when rage twisted his features before Tus's blade wiped his face blank with shock. But sometimes he would see him sanding before the Sands, the ruler over his dark empire as he dangled over the edge of the rocks, his hand still cold from where Tamina's had pulled free. It was moments like that when Dastan was glad for every step the drugs and the torture forced him to take forward as they drove him closer to madness.

How the sound of feet reached his ears, he did not know. It seemed as though something as soft as footsteps should not have made it to his ears. But they did. And whatever fragments of the man he had once been forced his head up, turning it to the rough doorway carved into the wall of the cave. There was no door there, as though his captors knew the men they forced down to this place were not going to be escaping. Not after the first day anyway. Dastan barely managed to keep his head up long enough to identify the man who walked down into the room. Or to try to at least. His face was lost to the shadows, his identity as useless to Dastan as every other thing he tried to remember as he sat in the cave.

He could not even feel comfort at the knowledge he would not be tortured.

The torture always began silently, soundlessly, without any sort of warning. He would see a flash of black or silver and then the pain would roar up. It always hurt, in the beginning. But the man had let him hear his footsteps, something Dastan was sure he was capable of preventing. But he heard the mans quiet, precise footfalls as they moved to the fire. There was the sound of metal moving against the stone and the light of the fire changed, sending colored spots dancing across Dastan's vision. Squeezing his eyes shut, Dastan turned his head away from the blinding light but it made no difference as his senses lurched sickeningly.

"It will pass," the voice of the man said, no emotion in his tone.

Dastan forced his eyes open, looking at the rocks under his feet. An ornate black disk, burning with embers lay in between his feet now, the coals red and bright. His chest heaved, the action not hurting as much as Dastan knew it should. Perhaps he was finally dying, though the thought did not strike him as a troublesome one. Death would at least be something final, something real. Rather than the fog and the haze and the confusion. He heard the man move, stepping away from the fire and moving towards him on steps that seemed to ring in his ears. There was no point in looking at the man, he would be beside him soon enough. The man stood in front of him, just out of his range of sight.

"It always passes."

The smell of the herbs filled his nose, the putrid stench making some part of him cringe. But the beautiful fog filled his nose, seeping through every ache and thought until all that remained was-well, was nothing. He was not there, no more than his ankle was broken or his wrists were bound with rope. There was nothing anymore. In that blissful nothingness, Dastan raised his head to take in the sight of the man who waited patiently for the herbs to take hold. He looked at Dastan with a gaze devoid of emotion. As Dastan looked at him the man walked closer to him, towering over his bound form though Dastan was fairly sure they would have been close to the same height if he had been able to stand. The mans eyes moved over his features, seemingly searching for something Dastan was not sure he would find.

Unable to look at the man anymore, Dastan let his head roll back, bringing the ceiling into the view of his eyes. The world seemed to spin further as more of the herbs invaded his senses, taking his mind away. The world became lost to him as he looked up at the ceiling, his eye taking in the uneven surface of the rocks. A distant part of him thought that he should feel sick. An even more distant part told him that he should be fighting. That he should be worried, that he should be doing everything in his power to get out of this place. But that part grew softer with each beat of his heart, each breath of his lungs. He had nothing to fight for, he had nothing to protect. Not for some time and certainly not in the moment he lay suspended in. He had nothing to protect.

Not anymore.

He did not realize the man had moved until he stood beside him, the swish of the black robes he wore the only indication that he had moved at all. The man looked at him, his eyes taking in the sight of Dastan's features once more before he stepped back, letting the ceiling take over Dastan's gaze. Whether the man stood there for minutes or hours, the Prince could not have said. Time, that strange, precious thing seemed to have no place in the darkness of the cave. When the man spoke, his voice was edged in something Dastan could not have named if his very life depended on it. But the moment the mans voice reached his ear, it became the only thing that mattered in the distorted world.

"Tell me about the Princess."


	2. Chapter 2

_2 Months Earlier_

Chaos ruled Alamut.

From the safety of his balcony in the occupied Alamutian palace, Dastan watched the riots that spread across the Holy City, despite the best efforts of the Persian army to quell them. Conqueror and savior, he felt little more than useless as he watched the destruction. He and Garsiv had been forbidden from leaving the palace by Tus, not that it made a terribly large difference to him. His encounter with his Uncle and quick proposal had used the last of his faltering strength. He knew that going outside of the palace would certainly mean his death and for once he was content to listen to the wisdom of his older brother.

His entire body felt as though it had been reduced to jelly, his limbs barely able to offer any support. Every injury he had received during his fight with Nizam and the Hassansins, every bruise and bump and burn all seemed to stand out with chilling clarity. That was nothing new for Dastan. He knew that in the middle of a battle it was easy to push injuries aside. It was after that your injuries hurt. What was unsettling was that there were no injuries. His skin was unblemished, unbroken, free of marks from Hassansin's hands and Nizam's blades. He knew where every injury was, he felt them as acutely as if they marked his skin. But there were none. None that he could show to the healers or that could be treated. There was only the pain and the fatigue.

By sunrise his father would arrive.

Just the thought of Sharaman's face when he heard of what his brother had done was enough to make Dastan remain on his feet with the pain and the fatigue. It could have been penance, or cowardice, but the Prince forced his body to remain upright, his eyes locked on the city that spread below his feet. Only the faintest sounds from the riots reached his ears, the palace far enough away to silence most of them. Behind him the room he had been given lay empty. He had sent away all the servants, including Bis, needing to be alone with his thoughts. Now as he stood there he half wished for a distraction, but he knew he was not worthy of such a thing. The men had called him the Lion of Persia but the title seemed especially bitter as he watched the city he was supposedly savior and conquerer of fall to chaos.

His right arm was one continuous burn of agony. The sting of his uncles blade, the throb of where his arm slammed into the rocks, the twinge of his thumb from when Tamina's wrist pulled free. He did not understand if the pain was in his head, if it was a figment of his imagination, or if there was real evidence from the time he had averted. He supposed it did not matter. Not really. It was not as though he could go to the healers and show them his arm. Not without them thinking he was truly mad. And even if he could convince them that there was something physically wrong with him, something treatable, he was not sure he would want it. They would numb him, and a numbed warrior was a useless one. He was useless as it was, but he knew he could still hold his own in a fight. Or so he would like to think.

Dastan found it hard to focus on any one thing that was wrong. It seemed rather pointless to pick one to focus on when the more he thought about it the more he realized that the world ending might not be such a bad thing. It would certainly make things simpler, rather than the muddled mess they were. His brothers were not speaking, their father was about to receive news that would betray everything he believed for most of his life. And Tamina-

Dastan's hand curled into a fist. Past their exchange in the garden the Princess had barely looked at him. There were things to be done-many things to be done but that was not what troubled Dastan. It was the way she looked at him. Like he was a stuck up Persian Prince who enjoyed running around the city. Like a man who did not deserve the riches he had. Not like a friend, not like a lover, not like someone who had proven himself to her ten times over. And in that moment Dastan had realized she would _never_ look at him that way. Not before they were married, not really unless the world almost came to an end once more. And for the life of him Dastan was not sure he was capable of saving it again.

But his brother had suggested a marriage between them and she had agreed. He knew it condemned him to a bittersweet life with her, filled with longing for what had once been rather than what was. But she was alive, she had agreed to be with him. He had to believe that at the end of the day, having her alive and at a different point in their relationship was better than not having her at all. He had to hold to the fact that they had come so far in a short time, that they could find their way to that place once more. Hope was little more than a distant memory at this point but if he had a single spark of it, it was encompassed by her.

The door opening behind him drew him out of his thoughts. Turning his head, he looked as a handful of servants came in followed by Bis. Bis who was still alive, the skin of his stomach not pierced by the blades of the guards. The last remnants of the desert and battle were gone from his skin, the folds of cloth he wore speaking of his station in the brothers lives. The servants bowed their heads as Bis walked through, but Dastan's oldest friend took no heed to the gesture that usually filled him discomfort. Agitation shone in his eyes as he walked up the few steps to the balcony and looked at Dastan.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you," Bis said, his tone oddly formal, "but I just received word, your father has passed through the gates."

Dastan's eyes widened, his head turning as though to see if it was still night. The sky was still dark, not a streak of light to be seen. Fear clogged his throat. Not fear for his fathers safety, there was a reason Nizam had thought it would be easier to unwind time, nor for the riots going on below. King Sharaman not the type to rush, not unless somehow word of Nizam's treachery had gotten back to him. It was not an unfathomable thought. After all, Nizam had tried to kill him while surrounded by the majority of the Persian army. Those who had not seen the deed had been informed of it, time and time again. The news had spread like wildfire but Dastan had not thought it would get to his father so quickly. It was an unspoken decision among the three of them that they would tell their father of what happened.

Now it seemed gossip had beaten them to it.

"When?" Dastan asked.

"Not five minutes ago," Bis said.

Dastan moved quickly into the main room, his fingers moving to the buttons of his shirt. His hands were shaking. Dastan looked down at his trembling fingers. It had been a very long time since his fingers had trembled, since anything had made his hands shake as badly as they were. A pair of thinner ones came to his chest. Dastan looked down at the servant who quickly buttoned his shirt up as another held open a long, ornate outer robe for him to wear. Dastan had always hated the servants dressing him but there was little he could do now save for slide his arms through the sleeves as the servant who buttoned his shirt tugged the fabric into place.

"Thank you," Dastan said to the servants when they stepped back with lowered eyes.

Dastan quickly walked out of the room into the hallway. A woman stood, one who could have easily been mistaken for a maid but who Dastan would have bet was a guardian of the Dagger. No sooner had he stepped into the hallway than the woman bowed to him and turned, walking down the hallway. Her pace was quick but Dastan managed to keep up with her. The palace was bustling with activity as torches were lit and food was hastily prepared. King Sharaman had not been expected until morning. Dastan knew his father could care less about the lavishness of the palace at a time like this, but the palace servants seemed intent on making the palace serve the King as best they could.

The woman led him down the hallway to an antechamber. Tus and Garsiv were already inside, standing on opposite corners of the room. Like him they were dressed in ornate, embroidered robes befitting Princes. Unlike him, they wore it well. Or at least with the familiarity of one who had been born into wearing such lavishness. Both men turned and looke dat Dastan as he stepped through the door. The woman who had led him in closed the door silently behind her, leaving the three of them alone. Silence stretched endlessly between the three of them, broken only by the occasional click of Tus's worry beads. Garsiv seemed too lost in his own thoughts to start a fight, seemingly content to remain quiet.

Dastan leaned against the wall, hiding his shaking hands behind his back. Fatigue and pain seemed to be eclipsed now by the worry that filled him. How many endless times had his father told that story of Nizam saving him from the lion? How many times had his eyes shown with affection they all thought was returned by his sibling? The thought of those empty smiles, of the thousands of small betrayals his uncle had performed, all of that made bile rise in the back of his throat. He was glad for the silence that stretched between them. Glad that he was not obligated to speak to either of his brothers. He had a feeling that when he forced his lips apart it would not be words that came through his mouth.

The doors opened and a man wearing the robes of one who served their father entered, dropping into a deep bow in front of them. All three turned to face him as the man kept his head to the ground.

"His Majesty will see you now," he said.

The three of them glanced at each other before walking into the hall where their father waited. The grandness of the place was lost on them as they took in the sight of their father.

None of the Princes could ever remember King Sharaman looking as old as he currently did.

His back was stooped, his hands clasped and his head lowered, as though the weight of the world had come to rest on his shoulders. Had there been anyone else in the room, each was aware their father would not have acted in such a way. Belatedly Dastan realized that Tus and Garsiv had taken their usual placed in front of their father, Tus at the center and Garsiv on his right. Quickly Dastan moved to his place on Tus's left, facing the throne. Their father did not move from his position but none were foolish enough to speak. They waited in silence

"When I set out for Alamut," the King began, straightening up, "my heart was heavy at the news of your decision to attack the Holy City," he finished, not turning to look at his sons, "in my heart I knew you had an explanation. But even I could not have thought this."

"Father-" Tus began, only to fall silent when the King turned to face his sons.

However terrible he had looked with his back turned to them, it was nothing compared to the look in his eyes. He looked dead. As though someone had animated a skeleton and made him walk and speak. It was as if Nizam's blade had found his mark, as if he had not saved his brother from the lion. King Sharaman looked dead. Dastan swallowed against the block in his throat. The sight of his father so deadened, so broken, was one he never thought he would see. Only the memory of watching his father burn reminded him just how bad things could have been. How bad they had been. Emotional pain would pass, their father would heal from this. He had to believe that. That the pain he felt now was far better than the feeling of acid eating away at his skin.

"What has been done?" King Sharaman asked, his eyes moving from Tus to Garsiv.

"My men have searched Unc-Nizam's belongings," Garsiv said, his voice surprisingly hoarse, "but we cannot find any further evidence of his intentions."

"Send word to the palace," Sharaman said, "perhaps his quarters will give us more insight."

"Yes, father," Garsiv said bowing deeply.

"Father," Tus began once more, drawing their father's attention, "Princess Tamina has graciously agreed to a marriage with Prince Dastan, uniting our Kingdoms in a far more peaceful manner."

King Sharaman looked at Tus for a moment before his eyes went to Dastan. Dastan straightened under his gaze, meeting his fathers eyes. King Sharaman looked at him silently. It had always difficult to tell what his father was thinking but the King was even more unreadable now. Something unpleasant filled Dastan. No words of agreement were coming from his fathers mouth, no blessings or murmurs of a right decision made in the face of so much wrong. Sharaman simply held his gaze with his own, something almost sad in his eyes. As though the news of his youngest son being married was another pain. Another in the face of so much grief that it was odd to feel it at all. The sad look in his eyes did not pass as he turned to the men guarding the doors and nodded to them.

They pulled open the doors and Dastan turned to look as the Princess entered.

Tamina walked into the hall, her body rigid with pride and defensiveness. The long white robe she wore was edged with gold embroidery, the designs on her hands and feet echoing the pattern. Fire blazed in her eyes, a look Dastan knew all too well. She was furious, her eyes squarely locked on the King. If she could see the deadened look in his eyes or the grief etched on his face, she made no acknowledgement of it. If the Princess felt capable of mercy for the Persians, Dastan knew that none of it would be found there. Not now anyway.

It was jarring to see her so angry. Especially when he thought back to how she had been right before her death, when she had decided he was not a complete and total idiot. Almost against his will, Dastan found his eyes drawn to her lips. Softly parted, they showed no signs of the rage that flashed in her eyes. Most women pressed their lips together or bit them or did something to show that they were displeased. But not Tamina, not the woman who had taken every thought he had of what a woman was and twisted it about.

She did not look at him as she came to stand in front of the King. She did not bow to him, her spine remaining perfectly erect. The three women that stood behind her could easily have been mistaken as maids, but Dastan was willing to bet they were guardians of the Dagger as well. They made no move to bow to the King either, Tamina's defiance echoing their own. King Sharaman stood, looking down at the Princess's features, his own still etched with grief. But even the grief of a man such as King Sharaman was not enough to reach past the hardened look in the eyes of the Princess.

"Your Highness," the King said, "in all my travels I have never looked upon a more beautiful city."

"If you think my city beautiful," Tamina replied, "you should have laid your eyes on it before your horde of camel-ridding illiterates descended on it."

Shame did not grace King Sharaman's face, his eyes remained as dead as they had been the moment he walked in. Tamina gave no sense of discomfort at the way the King looked at her almost sadly. Nor would she, Dastan knew. She was furious at the destruction and chaos that raged through Alamut and the blame was shared, partially at least, by the men gathered in that room. Tamina had thought little of his explanations for why he acted the way he did, or at least she had in the beginning. That was where they were once more, back at the beginning. Back when she thought him a haughty Persian Prince. He had thought her little more than a stuck up Princess, more trouble than she was worth, so the thought of her disliking him had not been one that particularly bothered him. But now, now he found he hated the idea of her thinking so little of him.

"My brothers hand has wrought much tragedy," King Sharamn said.

"A hand may guide the sword that cuts down a man," Tamina said, refusing to the let the King give all the blame to Nizam, "but it is the blade that kills him."

"Wise words," King Sharaman said, "for the pain that has been caused you have my deepest apologies," he continued, "and my highest hopes for a brighter future between Alamut and Persia."

"Your hopes and apologies will not give the dead their lives. Nor quell the riots," Tamina said, "or feed those left without homes and families."

"No," King Sharaman agreed, "you understand better than any what your city needs. You will be given the resources to accomplish what you must."

"Alamut does not need your charity," Tamina said, her voice edged with anger.

"It is not," King Sharaman said, "it will be the duty of my son to take care of his wife."

Tamina looked at him but no further angry words spilled from her lips. The mention of her marriage was a sobering reminder that anger would not change what had happened. No more than anger would bring back the dead, quell the riots and put food on the tables of the hungry. Everyone in the hall knew that Alamut was a small city state. Persia was an empire. If they did not do something to ensure that Alamut had firm ties to Persia-ties like a marriage, like a child-then any peace could have been fleeting. However much she hated him, Dastan knew Tamina would do what was best for Alamut. She continued to look at King Sharaman when the old King spoke.

"So I ask for your hand for Prince Tus," Sharaman said, "my eldest son and future King. May the peace between us hold strong through your marriage."

An odd sort of roaring filled Dastan's ears as his entire body began to feel as though dread had taken over it. Tus had said that Tamina would be his wife. If nothing else he had thought that at least would get them on the right path. But their father had just said she would marry Prince Tus. The one thing that had made sense, that Dastan was thankful for still happening and his father was about to undo it. Tamina's gaze narrowed before her kohl lined eyes moved across the brothers, finally settling on his face. Dastan looked at her as she looked at him, her own face unreadable. She did not trust him, not enough to let him see what she was thinking. And why should she? To her knowledge he had done nothing worthy of her trust. Not like he had before. Her eyes left his face and returned to the King.

"One of your sons has already proposed to me," Tamina said.

"My eldest son," King Sharaman said firmly, ignoring the words of Dastan's proposal, "and the resources and protection of the Persian empire shall be yours."

Tamina looked at the King as the entire hall seemed to collectively hold its breath. Dastan found his hands curled once more into fists, fists so tight that even his short nails bit deeply into his palms. This could not be happening. The last time King Sharaman had overruled Tus and promised Tamina to him. Now it seemed he would once more overrule his brother. Dastan wanted to howl as the scene played with sickening clarity once more. He had changed time, and yet it seemed time was determined to echo its earlier course. He was paralyzed, paralyzed with the knowledge of what would happen. He knew, with sickening clarity, that Tamina would do what was best for Alamut. He saved the city, yes, but Tus was the future King of Persia. And one would have to be blind not to see the day when he would assume the throne was approaching quickly. She would be a high ranking member of his harem, but most importantly she would most likely be allowed to stay in Alamut, her husband little more than a ceremonial figurehead. It made sense, in the most twisted and _wrong_ way. The roaring in his ears was deafening, so loud that rather than hear what she said, Dastan saw her lips move, forming two words that would forever shatter him.

"I accept."

The air seemed to vanish from the room. Dastan found he could not breath or think or do anything but stand there as the King motioned Tus forward. It was like watching some twisted, horrible nightmare as his brother offered Tamina his hand and she place her hennaed one in his. She accepted. She had accepted his proposal, despite Tus's assurances that she would be Dastans. King Sharaman looked at the two of them before his eyes landed on Dastan. He motioned Dastan over to him as the few gathered in the hall continued to voice their approval of the union. Both the rulers were stone faced as they stood side by side, looking at each other silently before turning back to their respective followers. Dastan came over to the King, still feeling as though he was out of his body. King Sharaman looked up at him, his gaze now full of sadness. Dastan looked back at Tamina almost desperately before looking at his father.

"Father-" he began, but feel silent when King Sharaman held up a hand.

"I am sorry your brother put you through this," King Sharaman said, "it was his order to attack this city, it is his responsibility to ensure its peace with our empire."

"Yes, but," Dastan began before falling silent.

But what? But I saved her? But I was the one who conquered Alamut? But she was in love with me in a time that did not happen and it is my sincerest hope that she will be again? Each protest sounded ridiculous, even to his own ears. And he was fully aware of what had happened. King Sharaman would think he was truly insane if he said anything. Fighting the feeling of a great, invisible hand squeezing his throat shut, Dastan looked at his brother and his wife-to-be. This was all wrong. So wrong he wondered if her Gods were not punishing him for what he had done. King Sharaman's old hand settled on his shoulder, drawing his eyes back to the face of his father.

"Oh my son," King Sharaman said sadly, "your marriage should not be to fix another man's mistake."

Dastan stared at his father, unable to speak past the feeling of his own heart shattering.


	3. Chapter 3

It was only after Tamina left the room that Dastan felt as though he could move again.

King Sharaman departed with her, most of the other people filing out after the two highest ranking monarchs. It was only when they were more or less alone that Garsiv approached Tus, Dastan forcing himself to move behind his brother. He still felt dazed, his heart heavy with the knowledge of their father's decision. His marriage should not be to fix another's mistake? But if there was one thing he wished to keep from the earlier time, it was that he and Tamina become as they once were. That they learn to be with each other as they had once been. Now unless he could find a way to speak to his father, to get him to change his mind, they were going to never have that chance.

"Congratulations, brother," Garsiv said.

Tus nodded, though the stiffness of the gesture matched the stiff tone in Garsiv's voice. Dastan looked between them, knowing perfectly well why they acted the way they did. Since they were born, Tus and Garsiv had their paths laid out for them. Tus would follow in Sharaman's footsteps, becoming a great and noble King of the Persian Empire. Garsiv would walk the path of Nizam, becoming his wise and trusted vizier. But Nizam's treachery had been shattering. Now the path that had been laid so clear to them was wrought with danger, twisted with confusion. As he looked at them, Dastan felt his anger at their uncle rise. The man was dead, but the repercussions of what he had done would echo for long after the body was cold.

"Dastan," Tus looked at him, "I am sorry for what you must have endured. Father was right, your first marriage should not be to fix my mistake."

As though Dastan was seeing a ghost, he watched as the line of his brothers throat seemed to split, as if cut by an invisible blade. His eyes widened as he stared at the line of red that seemed to spill from the corner of Tus's mouth. Suddenly it was truly impossible to breathe as the man standing in front of him seemed to pale, as though his blood was spilling out of him. Though his chest struggled for air, Dastan found he could not inhale.

"Dastan?" Garsiv's voice seemed to come across a great distance, "Dastan are you alright?"

Dastan turned to Garsiv, already knowing what he would see. The darts that had ended his brother's life were back, protruding out of his chest as blood stained the white shirt he wore. His lips were stained as well, the red blood making his mouth seem almost garish. Concern etched his face but all Dastan could see was the pair of them looking as they had when Nizam ended their lives.

"I-" Dastan began, "I-I cannot be here," he said, turning on his heel and all but throwing himself out of the room.

He heard his brother call to him but it was a half hearted call at best. They were all just as distraught as he was. He forced himself to walk, though his heart seemed to be trying to escape his chest. His brothers were alive, not riddled with darts or bleeding with slit throats. They were whole, they were well and yet the image of their deaths seemed to be burned into his head. His stomach rolled and Dastan choked on the bile that burned his throat. But he forced himself not to be sick, not to give in to the urge to vomit and collapse to the ground, sobbing. He could not do that, not now. Not when remaining on his feet was the best he could do. Forcing himself forward, he focused on breathing. Only on breathing until the feeling of wanting to die began to slip away.

He had to find his father.

Of that he was sure. He needed to speak to the King, needed to make him see that Tamina could not marry Tus. Not now. Not like this. His thoughts were jumbled as he walked the silent corridors of Alamut, intent on finding his father. There had to be a reason, a plausible explanation-something that would make his father see Tamina should marry him and not Tus. In spite of the fact that Tus was the future King of Persia, had many other wives _and_ their father seemed to think he needed to be taught a lesson in responsibility. If there was one thing that Dastan knew his father was capable of, it was teaching his sons a lesson. The thought of Tamina, however, being used as a lesson for Tus made his stomach roll for the Princess. She deserved better. Much better than to be a lesson taught to his older brother. Dastan continued down the corridor with no destination in mind, his thoughts too confusing to let him think properly about such things as where he was walking. Perhaps it was fate, perhaps it was luck, perhaps it truly was punishment from the Gods but when Dastan looked up he was just outside of the gardens in a sheltered walkway. His eyes moved to the gardens and landed on the lone figure there.

Tamina was sitting on the edge of the fountain.

His breath caught in his throat as he looked at her. The white robes she wore pooled around her, the fabric pale against the warm stones that made the floor of the garden. Her head was turned to the fountain, as though the waters there held answers she so desperately sought. In the dark of the night, she seemed almost otherworldly. For a moment Dastan wondered if he had not managed to turn back time at all. If she was somehow a specter or a ghost, sent to haunt him. Sitting there she looked too perfect to be real and though she was breathtaking, Dastan found he irrationally wished to see her in the sand stained white garments she'd worn during their adventure together.

Her body stiffened a moment before she straightened up, her head turning to look at him. Her eyes easily found his, their expression unreadable. He found himself unable to look away from that gaze. Now it shone unreadable but he remembered with painful clarity the bright spark of anger, the dance of humor, even the softness that had shone those last few times when she had looked at him. The tightness in his chest was almost unbearable as he realized how far they had come. He could not read her now, no more than he had been able to read his brothers when he had first moved into the palace. The only thing that shone in her eyes now was wariness. A few feet and a million, impenetrable walls stood between the pair of them now. Only when her eyes lowered did he walk forward.

"In Alamut, one comes to the gardens for solidarity," Tamina said to him.

"My apologies," Dastan said, "but since you brought me here before I assumed it was alright."

Tamina said nothing, but Dastan knew her well enough to know if she wanted him gone she would make it clear. Silently he stood in front of her, his trembling hands hidden behind his back. Tamina looked up at him, her eyes unsure and Dastan realized that he must seem quite mad to find her in the gardens and then not speak to her. Forcing his voice to be steady, Dastan broke the silence.

"Congratulations," he said quickly, "on your engagement to my brother."

"Thank you," she said, inclining her head.

"It must be hard though," he said, "to be marrying a man just because his idiot of a younger brother figured out that the east gate would be less guarded."

She looked at him almost warily, as though she was unsure of what he was saying. Something deep inside Dastan's chest twisted viciously at the way she looked at him and for a moment he wanted to reach out and shake her. To scream that he knew her, that she knew him, that they had shared something. Something profound. Something that had brought them so close together that to be ripped apart like this was senseless and cruel. But the words caught in his throat as he looked at her and before he could speak, Tamina did.

"I suppose then," she began, her eyes rising to meet his, "the blame lays partially with my High Council for ordering the majority of our guards to the main gate."

Dastan stared at her, disbelief rolling through him at her words. It was guarded, barely even teasing really, surely a far cry from their earlier easy banter. But it was something. Tamina looked at him evenly, her eyes calm and the barest hint of a smile on her lips. Almost against his will, Dastan felt his own lips curve up into a smile that echoed hers.

"As with any invasion, there is blame to go around," he said.

"You must forgive my ignorance," Tamina replied evenly, "this is my first such invasion."

"Well, Princess," Dastan sad, "there is a first time for everything."

Tamina's smile widened and Dastan felt his heart soar.

Dastan looked over to see a man standing wearing the robes of a guardian, his head bowed respectfully. Tamina turned her head to look at him, her expression once more unreadable.

"My deepest apologies, Princess, but it is time."

Tamina inclined her head before turning to face him. Dastan quickly pushed himself to his feet, offering his hand to her. Tamina looked at his hand before quickly moving her gaze to his face. Slowly she reached out and placed her hand in his, letting him held her to her feet. Her robes moved softly with the breeze as she stood, her body turning to face his.

"My apologies, Prince Dastan, but I must bid you goodnight," she said, slowly withdrawing her hand.

"Goodnight, Princess," he said, forcing his fingers to let hers go.

Dastan turned and watched the guardian and Tamina as they retreated, his eyes moving across the fabric she wore. She had smiled, he had made her smile and his heart felt lighter than it had all day. As though feeling his eyes on the Princess, the guardian who stood beside her turned his head to look at Dastan. For a reason he could not explain, Dastan felt the hair on the back of his neck stand.

Vaguely he recognized the man.

The man there was familiar, but in a way that marked him as more than a man who served as a guardian. The man had meant something, he had played an important role, though for the life of him Dastan could not say what it was. Frowning, Dastan got to his feet. Years of living on the streets and navigating the waters of the palace had taught him that when one had a feeling, it deserved investigation. His feelings seemed to have a particularly nasty habit of being right. Moving forward, he shifted his weight, rendering his steps as silent as he could make them without sacrificing speed. He saw the man shift and immediately ducked into the alcove, hiding himself from view. The last thing he wanted was for the man to see he was being followed. If he saw Dastan he would not act as he intended and that would only put Tamina in further danger.

Peering out, Dastan saw them further down the corridor. Staying close to the wall he followed them down the warmly lit space, his eyes scanning for any other threats. Most of the path was lined with ornate archways and bright torches, but as he looked up ahead Dastan could see that there was a stretch where there were thick walls with no view of the gardens. Two freestanding torches on wrought iron poles stood nearby, marking their entrance into the stretch of enclosed hallway. Dastan lowered his hand, reaching for his blade only to find there was none. Dastan glanced down, belatedly remembering that he had been meeting his father. People did not go to meet King Sharaman armed, not unless they wished to incur the wrath of his guards. He looked at the pair of them. They would reach the lamps faster than he could get to them. Casting his eyes about, Dastan looked for something, anything to use as a distraction.

His eyes landed on the torches set into brackets in the wall. Reaching upwards, Dastan's hand locked around the shaft of a torch set into the wall. Much to his relief, it pulled free. Reaching upwards he slid the thing silently out of its bracket. With trained eyes he saw the man's shoulders tense, his muscles moving as his hand went towards the blade at his hip. Drawing his hand back, Dastan waited until there could be no mistake. Until the man's hand had locked around his sword, until the two of them were positioned just through the two torches.

Dastan snapped his wrist forward.

WIth a terrific bang, the smaller torch slammed into the freestanding one, knocking it off balance and into the back of the man, the flames licking at his cloak. Without missing a beat, the man spun around, throwing the garment off as Dastan leapt forward, closing the distance between them. Sidestepping the man's quick pass with his blade, Dastan ducked, his hand locking around the shorter of the torches as he brought it up to parry the attack. The sword slid across the shorter metal as Dastan stepped back before lunging forward, slamming the blunt end of the makeshift weapon into the man's stomach.

Something white hot streaked across Dastan's wrist, forcing him to drop the weapon. Twisting his body around, Dastan grabbed it with his other hand and blocked the man's next attack. The weapons met once more with a sharp sound that seemed to echo across the hallway. The man was quick and obviously well trained to survive any scenario. The blows that made it past Dastan's defenses came quick and fast. Dastan struck back as best he could, but with only the short, blunt torch it was difficult. The man struck a sharp blow upwards, forcing Dastan to grasp the torch with both hands as the sword bore down on his neck.

As they stood locked with each other, the sound of footsteps running down the hallway reached their ears. Guards were coming. From the sound of it they were approaching on all sides. Dastan knew it and the man who stood across from him seemed to know it as well. The man looked at him for a moment before disengaging him. Before Dastan could react, the man turned the blade on himself and without a moment's hesitation slit his own throat. Warm blood sprayed from his throat, landing on Dastan's forearm as the man crumpled to the ground. He was dead before his body could strike the marble.

Dastan looked at the blood that spread across the ground, staining the man's robes and the white stone underneath his feet. Disappointment and frustration surged through him. The man was dead. There would be no answers, not that night, not from the dead man who lay on the ground before him. Dropping his makeshift weapon on the body, Dastan straightened up. The feeling of eyes on the back of his neck made him look behind him, at the darkness of the archway.

A man stood watching them, his fevered eyes shining in the darkness.

Cloaked entirely in black, he was almost indistinguishable from the shadows that surrounded the garden. The black robes he wore moved with the breeze that blew through the garden, giving the man an almost ethreal appearance. But it was his eyes Dastan could not look away from. Fevered and bright, he _knew_ those eyes. Though the Prince was sure there were weapons on the man's body, he made no move to go for them. Dastan felt his hand tighten on the torch as he looked at the man cloaked in black, the man who he was sure watched him with those unsettling eyes. While they could no have held each others gaze for more than a moment, it was the longest moment of Dastan's short life.

Without a word, the man turned and vanished into the shadows.

"Wait!" Dastan was on his feet instantly, at the same instant that the guards arrived, "There's another man! In the gardens!" Dastan said motioning to the archway.

A handful of guards ran towards him but Dastan knew they would not find him. His eyes moved from them to the form of the Princess. Tamina stood there, her eyes wide and her lips parted. Her skin was pale as she looked at the body of the man, her eyes following the puddle of blood that spread from his slit throat across the floor. The guards began to swarm them, their eyes moving around for any further threats. If there were, Dastan was aware that they would present themselves. Not tonight. Tamina's eyes widened as the blood edged towards her shoes. Shaking off the last of his stupor, Dastan moved forward.

"Princess, are you alright?"

Her eyes moved towards him, the answer to the question very obvious. But Dastan had asked it to force her to try and reply, hoping to jar her out of her shock. Tamina looked down at the blood that almost touched her shoes before quickly stepping out of the way, coming to stand closer to him. Glancing back at the men, Dastan lightly touched her back. Tamina was clearly used to being guarded and obeyed his silent command, walking forward as he moved them away from the body.

"We need to get you inside," he continued, "is there somewhere in the palace your guardians do not go?"

Tamina looked up at him, her eyes scanning his face as though searching for some sign that she could trust him. Dastan looked back at her but kept them moving towards the palace. Her feet began to slow before coming to a stop, her back pressing against his forearm. Dastan felt frustration burn through him. They were standing in between a pair of open archways. it was too dangerous to just stop now. They had to get somewhere safer, somewhere where she was not in mortal danger.

"Princess if I wanted you dead I would not be trying to get you to safety."

"Or do you wish to kill me?" she asked, her eyes narrowing. Confusion shone on his face, "for the glory of Persia? To have complete control over Alamut and its treasures? Or perhaps you wish me dead so that your brother cannot have me!"

Horror at the idea she would even consider him capable of such a thing flooded Dastan. His chest seemed to constrict in anger at the idea of her thinking so lowly of him. Before he could stop himself his hand streaked out and locked around her upper arm. Tamina's eyes widened in outrage at the touch, her lips parting as if to scream.

"You know as well as I that there is only one treasure in Alamut worth having," he said quickly, "and if I wished for it I would have left you at the mercy of that man. He was dressed as a guardian which means the rest of them may have been compromised. I need to know if there is somewhere in here that is safe for you to be."

Tamina looked at him silently for a moment, her eyes hard. They left his face to look over at the guards as the handful that had chased the man in the gardens came running back. One shook his head as if to say they had not found the man. Tamina pressed her lips together before turning back to him. Dastan waited, forcing himself not to throw her over his shoulder and take her into his own rooms in an effort to protect her. Quickly Tamina nodded, turning her body so that her hand pulled free of his grasp.

"My rooms," she said, "the High Council protects them, they are free of the guardians control," she quickly moved forward, picking up one edge of her robe to facilitate greater speed.

Dastan fell quickly into step beside her, forcing himself not to lament the fact he had not grabbed a weapon. Tamina led him up the stairs and into the palace, moving quickly through the corridors. Dastan's eyes moved around, looking for anyone who could seem a threat. Tamina led them down mostly deserted corridors, her steps too quick for any to be foolish enough to stop them. Dastan could feel the warm blood on his skin, his own mixing with that of the dead man. there would be many questions from any who stopped them. The last corridor Tamina led them down was full of far more people, including two women who seemed familiar. One quickly came to where the pair of them were walking.

"There's been an attack," Tamina told her, not wasting any time on introductions or pleasantries, "summon all the male guardians to the lower Temple," she said, "and double the guard in the High Temple," she glanced at Dastan, "send word to the High Council for their guards as well. On pain of death the High Temple is not empty, not for a moment."

"As you command," the woman said, bowing and departing.

Tamina walked over to the pair of doors. The second woman quickly opened them. Tamina hurried inside and Dastan followed her, ignoring the strange look that the woman gave him as he entered the Princess's quarters. Tamina glanced at her and the woman quickly nodded, shutting the door behind the pair of them. Dastan glanced at the room, taking in the open shutters and the wide balcony before his eyes began to search for places that intruders could be hinding. It was only then that he realized Tamina was still moving. Her steps not slowing, Tamina turned a sharp right.

Dastan saw something flash out of the corner of his eye and barely managed to twist so that the sword she brandished sliced the air in front of his chest rather than the skin it aimed for.

Her movements were just as wild and impractical. There was no fire or sand or Aksh, the scene was chillingly familiar. Almost as familiar as the words she had hurled at his father and the changing of which brother she would marry. Giving himself no time to think of the things that went just as the Dagger had made them the first time, Dastan moved quickly out of the way as Tamina slashed, murder flashing in her eyes.

"Is this how you treat every man you bring into your rooms?" he asked.

"I am attack in the palace the very night you breach the walls of my city? Walls that have stood for a thousand years?" Tamina demanded, ignoring his attempt a humor, her voice furious, "do you really think me that much a fool?"

Dastan's eyes widened as the truth crashed into him.

She thought the man who attacked her was working for him. There was no trace of humor or trust in her eyes now, just fury and hurt. She wanted him dead and as he saw the way she looked at him Dastan realized he would not mind terribly if such a thing were true. The moment they had in the garden seemed to be like a knife in his heart, reminding him that somewhere inside her was the woman who had trusted him. Who would have laughed at the idea of him trying to hurt her. But as he sidestepped the furious, betrayed, Princess's lunge, Dastan was painfully aware of just how far that woman was from him. And just how close he had been to coaxing her out.

"That man was not working for me," he began to protest.

"Liar!" she shouted, "you infiltrated my guardians you filthy Persian!" she roared, the sword grazing his shoulder.

Deciding he had enough, Dastan moved forward quickly. She had been trained, that much was clear, but she had no practical experience. What she thought she would accomplish attacking him in her rooms, he had no idea. He saw the arc her sword would take and brought his hand up, catching her wrist in his grip as he turned so her chest was against his back. Twisting her around, he forced the sword from her grasp with a quick twist of his wrist, the blade clattering across the ground as he locked his arms around her, using his height and weight to his advantage. She struggled against him but his hands had caught her wrists and the garment she wore did not allow her the mobility her legs would require to get out of his hold or do him harm.

"And to think I had considered the possibility of a Persian man with honor," she spat.

Dastan opened his mouth to tell her that he was a man with honor when her earlier accusation echoed back to him. Dastan realized that what she had said was true. Persians had infiltrated the guardians of Alamut. Just as they had infiltrated the spy networks of Persia. With chilling clarity he realized exactly why the two men had seemed familiar. Suddenly he knew why he had known the man meant Tamina harm and why the others had not been able to find the one with the fevered blue eyes. Tamina's foot slammed into his shin but he only tightened his arm around her.

"Stop-stop!" he ordered, "that man was not working for me-nor for my father and brothers. He was working for my uncle," he said aloud, "he was working for Nizam who gave my brother false information which lead to your city being attacked."

"How convenient of you to have a dead man to blame for all your mistakes," Tamina shot back at him.

Anger burned through the Prince at her words. All of this was Nizam's fault. The dead look in his father's eyes, the shattered trust between his brothers. The men who had infiltrated the guardians and fed Nizam information. Even the hatred of the woman who struggled in his arms. All of it was because of his greedy, power crazed uncle. A man who had been treacherous enough to attempt to turn back time itself so that he could have the throne. And even from the grave Dastan realized his uncle was going to attempt to finish what he had begun. Dastan released the Princess in his arms, his hands falling to his sides. She stepped out of his arms, facing him and Dastan once again found himself paralyzed.

He barely felt it when she backhanded him.

His eyes were filled with the sight of her robes, soaked in blood. It was his blood but that did not seem to make a difference. Once, when he was a child he had found the body of a man who had fallen from a great height to his death. He had seen the way his limbs twisted unnaturally, the way his fogged eyes looked unseeing at the sky. But what had shocked him was the amount of blood that had been on the man's body. Blood that he knew would have been on Tamina's if the pit she had fallen into even had a bottom. As he had seen his brothers dead, so he saw her. Her lips parted, her mouth opening but instead of screaming his name as she had when she died, an entirely different word came out of her mouth.

"Guards!"

Dastan turned as the guards stormed into the room. One look at them, both soaked in blood, her robes clearly far more disheveled than his and they immediately raced forward. Two men grabbed his arms and wrenched them behind his back. The guards were all clothed in Alamutian garb, their eyes furious at the prospect of the Persian Prince assaulting their beloved Princess. Tamina stood behind them, one hand grasping the front of her blood stained robes as she looked at him, her dark eyes furious.

"Get him out of here," she ordered, her voice tight with fury.

Dastan looked up at her as the guards yanked him out of the room. She held his gaze for a moment longer but by the time he had cleared the archway she had already turned away. The doors slammed shut between them with a bang, the sound jarring and final as the guards dragged him from the room and out into the corridor. No sooner had they rounded the turn than an angry voice stopped them in their tracks.

"Get your hands off him!"

Dastan turned his head at Garsiv's furious order. The middle prince looked, if possible, angrier than Tamina had, one hand already resting on his sword. For once Dastan could find no comment to make on that. Not when he saw the phantom darts that seemed to stick out of Garsiv's chest, the thin line of blood beginning to seep from the side of his mouth. His brother looked at the guards, his hand tightening on the sword. At his movements the phantom darts seemed to be driven deeper, bringing him closer to death.

"What's going on? Dastan?"

Dastan turned his head to see Bis standing there. Bis, whose shirt now bore a wide stain of blood from where the men had sliced him open as he tried to defend him. Dastan choked on nothing, tearing his eyes away from his friend and squeezing them shut. But the vision remained, in all its cruel glory. Tamina twisted and broken, Tus with his throat slit, Garsiv with darts embedded in his chest, Bis impaled and his father. Oh God, Sharaman with his skin eaten with acid from a robe Dastan himself had handed to him. A robe Dastan had been too lazy to handle with his own hand, to check for a threat he had no way of knowing was there.

This time there was no swallowing down the bile that rose in his throat.

No more than he could fight the quick spin of the world or the lurch of his head. The smell of his own blood reached his nose, the rusty tang worse than the acidic reek of vomit. The image of their bodies played in his head, an image too clear to be just a nightmare. Suddenly the weight of what happened, of all that had happened, was too much. His knees buckled, bringing his body to the ground. The guards scrambled to make up for the sudden change in movement, their hands scrambling to accommodate him but it was too late.

The last thing Dastan was aware of was his cheek striking the marble.

Then the miserable world went blissfully dark.


	4. Chapter 4

_Present Day_

Chest heaving as though he had run miles across the roofs of Nasaf, Dastan sagged in his bonds. His lone audience member said nothing. Hands folded by his sides he simply watched, his fevered, bright gaze locked on the struggling man in front of him. Fresh blood slid over darkened scabs, dripping silently onto the rough stone of the floor. The man's gaze left Dastan's form only to move to the brazier that leaked the smell of herbs, checking to ensure its smoke still reached the man sitting there. When his breathing calmed, the man moved forward, making sure that his feet were audible to the tortured ears of the prisoner. Slowly, as though his head weighed a ton, Dastan raised his face to his captor. For a moment the man thought he would see the spark of defiance, the blaze of hatred-all the things that had marked Dastan's first few weeks in his captivity. But the spark was a mere flicker, the blaze dampened by the methodical torture that had destroyed far greater men.

"To bear witness to a man's descent to insanity is a heavy burden," he said calmly.

Dastan looked at his captor. It was on his lips to tell him that he was not insane, that he _wished_ he was insane-just so that his own burden would be lessened. But then he remembered the soft sound Tamina's elaborate wedding dress had made, the way the light had caught the crystals braided painstakingly through her hair, the hardness that had shone in her kohl lined eyes and he found he could not make that claim. Instead he looked up at his captor with eyes as hard as he could make them and tried to see him as clear he could through the sweat stained hair that fell around his face.

"There were no witnesses," he said, feeling his head swim from the herbs at his feet, "my father banished me from Alamut the next day."

"Did you find your answers?"

Dastan looked at the man, momentarily surprised before realizing he should not be. With a bitter smile, he shook his head. The gesture sent the word spinning nauseatingly but such things did not matter. Not anymore. A bitter sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh escaped his lips as he looked at the man who stood there. That had been his father's excuse, that finding answers in his uncle's room would somehow give him peace. As if his uncle would have been foolish enough to hid anything in his private rooms. And even if he had, Dastan seriously doubted it would give him anything like peace. Not when he had been banished for an attack he had not committed. Not when Tamina had looked at him as if he was nothing but a liar and a threat instead of the man who had saved her life time and time again.

But that was not what the man in front of him was after.

He wanted to know how Dastan had found him.

The delight he felt was savage and bitter but it was the closest to a good feeling he had felt in a long time and so Dastan savored it, holding his silence. The man in front of him was patient, however, and did not push him. Both men were fully aware of the fact that Dastan truly had nowhere to run. Not now. Not as he was. Not after what he had done. And even if he had the capability, neither was sure that the young man would have taken advantage of such an opportunity. Finally Dastan spoke to his captor, giving him the answer he sought.

"I did not find evidence of your Den until I was back in Alamut," Dastan said, "I saw your mark, mixed in the papers of another vizier," Dastan let out a bitter laugh, "even in death my uncle was a traitor."

The man was silent, seemingly considering Dastan's words before he spoke again but Dastan beat him to it.

"Enough of these games," the Prince said, the force of his words surprising, "ask me what you want about that Gods-cursed knife and lets be done with this game."

No response came from his captor, as if the man in front of him was determined to not speak of the Dagger. As if he would continue the sham that that was not the center of their conflict. As if a knife that could control time was not the real prize he sought. Though he was sure that his eyes never left the black cloaked form of the man, Dastan did not see him move. Not until the scrape of metal on stone reached his ear. Not until he smelt the fresh herbs the man tossed onto the brazier. Dastan looked down at his knees as the metal slid back in between his feet, the smoke rising up at him as the embers glowed menacingly through the ornate latticework. The swish of fabric alerted him to movement but the smell of herbs had already begun to fog his senses over.

"The Princess, the Guardian," the man said, his voice sliding snake-like over Dastan's ears, "think only of her."

Dastan breathed in, his chest rising as the smell of herbs burned through his nose and settled like fire in his chest. The red of the embers began to change slightly, taking on a gold sheen, a bright color Dastan was certain seemed familiar. In an odd way it reminded him of Alamut. Of how the High Temple looked when the light streamed through the windows and burned across the tabernacle housing the Dagger. He imagined he could smell the scent of the incense that was used there, the mix of herbs he knew he would never be able to identify. The smell he knew he would never smell again. Would he ever see Alamut again? Or his brothers? Or even Tamina? Did he deserve such a thing? Or was it his well deserved fate to rot in the airless, windowless cavern with the poisonous voice of the fevered eyed man sliding through his head.

"Your brothers wedding," the man said, his voice echoing from some great distance, "Your return to Alamut. Start there."

"Tus's wedding," Dastan repeated the words, their sense escaping him. He knew there was something-something he was forgetting. Something he needed to remember. Something that was very _very_ important. The edge in the man's voice was unmistakable, "Tus-"

Abruptly Dastan choked on the smoke.

For some reason he could not fathom, his throat constricted and his eyes watered. A great weight settled in his stomach, making it impossible to remain upright. His body leaned forward, trying to double over. Seeking comfort Dastan knew he did not deserve. The ropes cut further into his flesh as his chest heaved and for a moment he thought he was dying. His lips parted but instead of a breath escaping, a low sound tore from his chest. A force seemed to roll across his body and somewhere he heard a sob tear through the quiet.

It was not until the salt stung the cuts on his face that he realized he was crying.

His chest heaved and the smoke burned through his nose, filling his senses as he gulped in air. The smell of blood was heavy in the air but Dastan knew it was not his. Just as the blood that coated his hands was not his own. In his eyes he saw the form laying there, the body contorted in its final moments of pain and betrayal. Dastan choked again, fighting against the image. The colors of the robes were different, but the floor of the Alamutian palace was the same. The stain of red was the same. The helpless confusion in the dead man's eyes was the same. His breath came hot and labored as every inch of him seemed to burn with a different kind of pain. Darkness spotted his vision as grief and agony clawed at him.

He could not breath...

Cold water crashed over him.

Dastan gasped, cold air filling his lungs as his abused ribs screamed with pain. Forcing his eyes open he was greeted with a blurred world. Blinking several times he looked down to see his knees slowly come into clarity. His entire body ached viciously but the cold water that streamed across his head and bared torso seemed to offer some clarity. As he sat there gasping, Dastan tried to figure out why he had been doused with water. But there seemed to be no reason. Though the walls of the room remained the same faceless, cornerless stone, he could feel the sting of cold air on his skin. He knew it was night. Vaguely he could remember a desert that surrounded the Den, the sands stretching all around them.

"Tell me about the Princess," the voice came to him once more, the demand edged in steel.

The taste of blood, metallic and sharp flashed across his tongue as he opened his mouth.

His earlier panic did not return. He felt, for lack of a better word, dulled. As if the entire world had been toned down, softened even. The grief was a lead weight in his chest, but it was not unbearable. He did not feel as though he was being strangled or as though he could not breathe. Around the dead weight he felt hollow. Like someone had taken everything he was and left only the shell of the man behind. Like his entire soul had been torn free. His own voice was dull to his ears as he spoke once more.

"Tell me why you killed him," he said.

"We do not kill without orders," came the reply, "his death did not serve our purpose."

"And what purpose would that be?" Dastan asked, meeting the man's gaze with his own, "you serve a dead man who would have sold you to my father at a moment's notice if he thought it would give him the throne," he shook his head, "but I suppose you do not concern yourself with the motives of those who pay your blood mone-"

His head was suddenly wretched back, iron fingers tight and unforgiving on his hair. Throat stretched taut, Dastan struggled to breathe as he stared up into the face of his captor. The man who held him's usually serene face was twisted with anger, making him seem impossibly more imposing. As Dastan took shallow breaths he was painfully aware of his throat. Would the man even need a knife to slit it? Or would he just strike him down? Even Dastan could understand how easy that would be and to his shame he felt his body stir with desire. The thought of death, of sweetly letting go and never feeling the pain of his life again was just too great. Too close, to attainable. A few more words from his torn, sore throat and it could all be blissfully over.

But as quickly as the rage had flown across the man's face, it was gone.

Something shone in the man's eyes, some realization Dastan did not understand. The hand in his hair slackened, releasing him from its iron grip as his heavy head dropped forward. Dastan turned his head to look at his captor but the man's gaze was once more deadened and unreadable. In some ways the loss of his release was more painful than Dastan could have prepared for. His entire body sagged in its restraints, the ropes scraping and tearing at his skin as the man stepped back. The sound of the brazier returning to its place between his feet barely stirred anything past the pain. The smoke burned and twisted through him as the haze began to roll across his consciousness, taking the bitterness and the anger with it. Pain, exhaustion, all of it began to fade slowly and blissfully away as the fog gently but firmly began to take him away.

"Tell me," the man's voice slipped through him, twisting and filling like the smoke of the herbs.

There was nothing there after all, nothing save for the raw empty wound where his soul had once been.

The smoke burned and stung, the voice poisoned and prodded but they filled the void.

In some strange way they comforted him.

"Tell me about the Princess."


End file.
